


An Itch to Scratch

by firefright



Series: A Different Kind of Therapy [1]
Category: Batman: Arkham (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dom/sub Undertones, Implied one-sided Bruce/Jason, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 18:51:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9251147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefright/pseuds/firefright
Summary: On a day when Jason wakes up to the ghosts of his past refusing to stay dead and buried, help comes from an unexpected source. Slade Wilson is determined to keep the Arkham Knight clearly focused on the path to killing Batman, even if it means he has to employ some unorthodox methods to do so.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Skalidra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/gifts).



> So here is a thing I wrote as a terribly belated birthday fic for my dear Skalidra, who is both an amazing friend and the best writing partner/enabler I could ever ask for <3 She requested some Slade/Jason when we were discussing the Arkham Knight-verse and the fact these two work together in the side-comics storyline, and honestly, I never expected to enjoy writing or fall in love with this pairing as much as I have. Like all the best things in life, it's so bad, but also so so good.
> 
> Inspiration for this fic also comes from this [amazing fanart](http://crumpeting.tumblr.com/post/143688044430/nordstr0m-reincao-slade-wilsonjason) by Reincao on tumblr. Definitely worth checking out.

His cheek is itching when he wakes up.

As far as warning signs go, it’s not the most obvious one in the world. Other people might have dismissed it as a mere quirk of the body, like a phantom limb trying to pick up a glass of water, and given the afflicted area a quick scratch to drive the feeling away, but after so many months of coping and surviving alone, Jason knows what it means when dead cells decide to play at being alive again.

Today is going to be a bad day.

He refuses to let his hand go near the raised skin of his scar when he gets up out of his bed. When he brushes his teeth and climbs into the narrow shower; even when he dons his armour and pulls the visor of his helmet down, Jason ignores that pressing, maddening itch across his skin for what it is: a figment of his imagination.

Sometimes he thinks that when this is all over he’ll see a surgeon, get the damn thing cut off, gouge apart his entire cheek himself with his fingernails if he has to, but until then - until Bruce has seen what _he_ did to him - it stays; a visceral reminder of all he has yet to accomplish anytime he looks in a mirror.

The pieces are moving into place: Harley Quinn, Penguin, Hush, Firefly… Gotham’s monsters know their parts and will take their positions when it all begins. Those who couldn’t be scared into submission have been bought, and with their cooperation secure they’re no longer Jason’s main concern. It’s his militia he has to focus on today, and across every other day from now until Halloween. Preparations need to be finalised, weapons and vehicles need to be checked and have the kinks ironed out of them, and most importantly, the men have to be ready, because they’re the ones who’ll make or break his and Scarecrow’s victory over the city and Batman both. Everything has to be perfect, _they_ have to be perfect, in discipline, tactics, and knowledge of how the Bat fights.

If they’re not, then everything he’s been working so hard for ever since he escaped Arkham will end up being for nought.

Yet despite that hefty distraction, the itch stays with him as he carries out his inspections and lectures to the lieutenants he’s brought to Gotham so that he can oversee their training personally. Digs into the muscle of his face and through his bones over the course of the day, riding up underneath his scalp as he corrects form and purpose, until the world blurs and by the time afternoon arrives he’s fighting off flashes of bloody crowbars and burning steel brands, all of it overlaid by the memory of mocking laughter drowning out the sounds of his militia going through the drills he devised for them.

Eventually, it gets bad enough that he’s forced to recuse himself from the proceedings, afraid that he’ll give something away to the men he needs to have absolute faith in his leadership if he doesn’t. Jason bites his lip as he stumbles his way into one of the abandoned subway-tunnels they’re hiding themselves in beneath Gotham’s streets, then - as soon as he’s sure he’s completely alone - he finds the catches of his helmet at the side of his face, pulling it off so hard that his ears bend the wrong way and there’s the painful snap of cartilage breaking on one side.

He doesn’t care as he sets the helmet down on the ground, then leans against the wall, pressing his face into the shield of his arm. A little pain like that? It barely feels like anything compared to all the other tortures he’s been through.

A thought that only makes the remembered sound of laughter in his head ring higher.

“Shut up, clown.” Jason whispers under his breath. Seconds tick by; he can smell his own cooking flesh as if it were yesterday “You’re dead, and it’s my show now. So you can just go to hell, you hear me? You can just...”

“Talking to yourself now, kid?”

Jason freezes. Even with his thoughts being pulled in a dozen different directions at once, that voice is unmistakable.

Deathstroke is standing behind him. Slade Wilson. The man who first helped him escape Arkham, then gather the men and equipment he needs for his takeover of Gotham - all for the right price, of course. Deathstroke is a mercenary at his core, a soldier who goes where the money leads him, but he’s also the best there is in the world at what he does. Keeping him in his employ has cost Jason a dozen fortunes this past year, but since it was all dirty money anyway (or stolen from Bruce’s own coffers), he didn’t exactly give a fuck about where it went.

The only thing that matters to him is that he gets his revenge.

With that in mind, Jason straightens up from the wall, after forcing his expression to settle itself into something more neutral. His helmet is too far away to reach for without the motion being a giveaway all on its own, and he doesn’t want Slade picking up on just how bad his disconnect is with the world today anymore than he already has.

Slade might be one of the only people still alive - other than Harley Quinn - who knows who he used to be, and they might have been working together for months now, even developed a kind of camaraderie between them, but Jason’s not about to let himself think they’re anything close to being friends. Just like any other predator, Slade won’t hesitate to take advantage of any weakness he thinks he sees in him.

“Well you know what they say, it’s the only way to get intelligent conversation.” Jason plants his feets and folds his arms across his chest, missing the electronic filter in his mask that would have covered up the trembling in his voice if he was wearing it. “What do you want, Slade?”

“I came to deliver the report on the next batch of tanks you ordered.” Slade says smoothly, his single eye watching Jason with telescopic focus. “And to check in on your progress with the lieutenants.”

“And to collect your next payment, I’m sure.”

“Business is business.” Slade agrees.

“I’ll have it in your account within the hour.” Jason moves to scoop up his helmet and step past him back out of the tunnel, unwilling to take the chance that he’ll slip up further if he lets this meeting be drawn out, but he’s brought up short by the impact of Slade’s hand catching him in the chest. “... what?”

Slade’s focus is hard and prying. Jason feels it tangibly, crawling across his skin in much the same way the itching in his cheek does. Like ants running up a molehill. “Something’s off with you today.”

“I’m fine.”

“Really.”

Jason goes still, not knowing what else to do with that. Slade has never bothered to enquire after his health before. It makes Jason suspicious as to his motivation, and so he reacts accordingly. “Worried about me, Slade? I didn’t know you cared so much.”

“About you? Hardly. Your plan however…” Slade tilts his head towards him. The knotted fabric attached to the back of his helmet sways with the motion. “You’re not the only one around here who wants Batman dead, kid, and if you’re not focused on the task at hand when the time comes, everything we’ve been working for since Arkham will fall apart.”

Jason’s eyes close for a moment at the reminder. On the skin of his cheek, the prickling from his scar worsens, burrowing deeper down into his flesh. Jason finds himself fighting the visceral urge to rake his nails down his face over and over until it bleeds. At least he’s on more familiar ground knowing that Slade is only protecting his own interests.

“I am focused.” He says, trying to paint the words as a warning. An unspoken ‘fuck off and leave me alone’ that doesn’t work.

Given that Slade only barely seems to listen to him when he actually gives a direct order, it’s not surprising.

His reply is pointedly matter of fact as he points out the holes in Jason’s statement, “Is that why you let me sneak up on you? Or follow you around for the past hour without you noticing me? Because that doesn’t look like focus, kid. It looks more like you’re faltering. Letting those other voices you keep locked up inside your head drown out your own.”

“That’s not true.”

“Try it with a little more conviction next time and I might believe you.”

He grits his teeth. “Slade…”

“We’re launching in three months.” Slade continues to talk, as if he’s the one in charge, as if this is _his_ plan and not Jason’s own. As if _he_ should sit down and listen, while Slade leads. “And if you truly want this plan of yours to succeed, you need to be ready. Which means you need to get your head out of the past and into the present, understand?”

“Last I recall, I wasn’t paying you to dispense advice.”

“A shame, I could help you a great deal more if you did.” The hand Slade put on his chest, the one Jason hadn’t realised was still there, drops away. His chest feels oddly feels tight in the wake of its disappearance. “You’re just like your dear older brother in that respect; you never know to listen when someone’s trying to help you.”

Jason lets out a bark of rough laughter, “I am _nothing_ like him. And don’t pretend like you give a shit either. You’re not trying to help me, you’re just trying to take care of your own interests.”

Slade clucks his tongue behind his mask, a disapproving, almost _fatherly_ sound, like Jason’s an unruly child who’s being purposefully difficult towards his caretaker, rather than a grown ass man. It doesn’t help his head any to hear it. “Of course, I believe we’ve been over that already. But in this case, those two actions aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Laughter threatens to bubble up out of his throat again. “Maybe you shouldn’t go comparing me to Nightwing then.”

“Maybe not. But that doesn’t change the truth.”

Jason lets himself smile, lets it turn the corners of his lips up without humour: hard and bitter and cruel. It’s the only kind of smile he knows how to make anymore. “And what’s that?”

“You need out of your head, and the best way to do that is with some action. So I’m offering you a sparring match, with someone who can actually give you a challenge.”

Jason tries to ignore the sudden burst of anticipation the chance of violence stirs in his chest. “Thanks but no thanks, Slade. You’ll have to go get your rocks off somewhere else. Bludhaven, maybe, if that’s what you’re after.”

There’s a stillness to Slade that makes Jason wonder if he’s gone too far. He may be a cold-blooded mercenary who’ll kill almost anyone so long as the money’s good enough, but Slade still has his pride; even a skewed sense of honour if you know where to look for it. Jason had heard of him breaking contracts in the past only when an employer insulted that honour.

But even that knowledge isn’t enough to make him take back the words.

Unexpectedly, Slade starts to laugh. “Good to see you haven’t lost your spine along with your reason.” Then he reaches for the staff on his back, unslinging and spinning it easily in his hand. An inviting, almost playful motion. “Now come on, stop pretending you don’t want this, kid.”

Jason glares at him, “I told you before, Slade, I won’t be your training exercise.”

“If this were a training exercise, I’d offer to give you some quarter.” His eye glints behind his mask as he jabs the end of the staff towards him. “Now, I won’t ask you again.”

Jason ducks automatically, stepping backwards further down the tunnel, and though he hates to admit it, that clean sweep of movement is the easiest thing he’s done all day. Action comes more naturally to him than words, or the act of trying to navigate the dangerously treacherous pathways of his own mind. No thought or feeling involved, just reflex and motion.

“Are you sure you want this, Slade?” He says, the temptation rising up in the form of the cockiness he once possessed in spades, “To challenge me?”

Slade chuckles, dark and knowing. “I’m sure that it’s what _you_ want.”

“Fine then,” Jason shifts his stance, bracing with his feet a foot apart, “Just don’t expect a pay rise later after I hand you your ass.”

“Kid, I’d love to see you try.”

He lunges forwards, fists at the ready as Slade brings up the staff to block him. He wasn’t expecting to be actually fighting today, so the only weapons he’s carrying on him are his guns and a few knives, the former of which are too loud to consider using so close to where the troops he already has stationed in Gotham could hear them fire. Sound carries easily in these tunnels, echoing for miles under the right circumstances, and he doesn’t want to risk them being interrupted doing this. Certainly it could be explained away as just a sparring match, but then both he and Slade would have to take a step back rather than fight to their full potential.

For good or ill, Jason has let Slade goad him into doing this, and he’s not going to back down now without getting what he was promised.

Even if he’s not exactly sure what that is.

He slams into him like a freight train, but Slade - five inches taller and far heavier - is ready for it. He doesn’t try to dodge his charge, but instead digs his weight down into his heels, bracing as he pushes back and throws Jason away from him with the length of the staff before swinging it around, aiming the tip at the unprotected side of his head. Jason grabs the end before it can connect and give him a concussion (wishing that he’d thought to put his helmet back on before this started) before yanking it hard towards him, bringing his leg up in a hard kick at Slade’s side at the same time. A kick which doesn’t connect, as Slade - already anticipating his move - lets go of the staff to ruin Jason’s balance and grabs his ankle instead, twisting it to the side and the rest of him to the ground with it.

Jason grits his teeth as he hits the dirt floor, keeping his grip on the staff as he immediately rolls away, narrowly missing the stamp of Slade’s foot where his wrist was only moments before. His armour protects him from most of his impact with the floor, but it still gives him a jolt. Enough to shake his teeth in his jaw and get his heart beating faster in his chest. Another roll takes him back up and onto his feet, and then he’s facing off against Slade again, stepping towards the center of the tunnel so that he won’t get backed up against one of the curved walls.

“That all you got, kid?” Slade taunts him, cocking his head to one side, boredom and disdain clearly signalled in a single gesture, “Have to say, I’m not impressed.”

“Trust me, Slade.” Jason says, lips curling up into an ugly snarl as the buzzing in his head gets louder once again, urging him into action. “I’m just getting started!”

The thrust of the staff at Slade’s chest is knocked away by his gauntlets, as is every subsequent blow that follows after. There’s no need to summon the anger necessary to make his hits hurt: Jason’s already been carrying it within him all day, and every day since he escaped Arkham. There’s pleasure in letting go, in forgetting the importance of keeping it locked inside him until the day he has his true target in his sights. His heart pounds with that impatience, the knowledge of how near he is to finishing this and finally knowing peace.

And he _will_. He will know peace, when Bruce is dead and bloody at his feet. He’ll -

The thought shatters as Slade takes advantage of his distraction to seize the staff between them and land a hefty blow with his foot into Jason’s stomach. Once again the armour protects him, but he loses the staff back to its rightful owner this time, and Slade loops it round in his hand before slamming the metal down into Jason’s shoulder as he bends over and stumbles backwards.

With a roar of frustration, he reverses direction, throwing himself forwards once more to impact solidly with Slade’s chest and this time drive him into the wall. The staff goes flying, falling away and rolling with a clatter down the tunnel, and Jason only has a second’s reprieve before an elbow drives down into his back. Once. Twice. Pain ripples along his spine and through his shoulder. Then he’s rearing up and driving his fist into the brighter side of Slade’s mask, causing his head to snap to the side with the force of the blow, but the reinforced steel doesn’t break.

Then, almost out of nowhere, Slade’s hand is around his throat and Jason is choking. He grabs for his wrist, too late as Slade braces himself against the wall and then heaves with his muscles, throwing Jason across the other side of the tunnel and away from him. The back of his head knocks against the floor, dazing him just long enough for his opponent to hook his foot under his hip and kick him onto his stomach. Before Jason even has to opportunity to get his hands under him to get back up Slade is dropping down onto his back, his weight alone a hefty enough impact to knock all the wind out of him.

“Enjoying yourself yet?” Slade almost purrs into Jason’s ear as he bends his arms backwards. The softness in his deep voice a sharp contrast to the violence he’s displaying in seizing both of wrists in one hand and yanking them upwards until they’re pressed between his shoulder blades. His muscles start to scream at the unnatural positioning, but then the queerest thing happens.

Jason shivers at the sound.

He doesn’t know where it comes from, or why. But his heart beats to attention, contrary to the way he thinks he should feel in this situation (held down and helpless beneath another). He can’t immediately find the words to answer; his tongue is suddenly nothing more than a thick slab of meat in his mouth, and Slade notices it.

“I just asked you a question, boy. It’s rude not to answer.”

He shivers again as Slade leans down closer, knowing that he’s watching him intently; analysing every single twitch of muscle in his face. “I’m not the polite one, remember? You’re barking up the wrong tree if that’s what you’re after.”

Jason gasps as Slade yanks his wrists still higher, until it feels like his arms are on the verge of either breaking or dislocating. “On the contrary,” Slade says smoothly, “I think I’ve stumbled on exactly the right one. This is quite the interesting new reaction from you.”

“I don’t… don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He tugs his wrists again, just a little bit, sinking his weight more heavily into the backs of Jason’s thighs as he does so. Jason bites his lip hard enough to taste blood, kicking his feet as a distorted moan breaks through the clench of his teeth. “ _Fuck_.”

“Now, let’s try this again.” Slade says smoothly, “Are you enjoying yourself, boy? Think carefully before you answer.”

Jason twists his head against the cold floor. Grit digs into his cheek and chin, mixing with the blood and saliva leaking out of his mouth. He feels dizzy, uncertain. He can’t recall anything quite like this ever happening to him before. Pain shouldn’t conjure this kind of reaction, doubly so from someone so dangerous and powerful at his back after everything he’s been through. But the adrenaline in his veins hasn’t dropped since the fight ended. If anything, it’s heightened.

“I… I don’t know.”

The thumb of Slade’s other hand presses against his cheek; the bare one thankfully, as it’s scarred twin is currently pressed against the floor, before brushing over his bloody lip. Jason tastes leather now beneath the blood when Slade speaks. “Here I was thinking what you needed was a good fight, when maybe it’s actually a good _fuck_ instead.”

Jason’s breathing hitches at the word, accompanied by an answering twitch at his groin. He’s blindsided by the reaction, even as he brazenly snaps back: “And I suppose you think you’re the one to give that to me, too. Huh, old man?”

“I’m considering it.” Slade answers with surprising honesty. His thumb pushes harder against Jason’s lips, almost nudging between them. He could bite now if he wanted to, but he doesn’t, waiting to see what Slade has to say. “But whether that does or doesn’t happen is down to you.”

He laughs, a raw wheezing thing. “You’re a real piece of work, Slade. Didn’t know I was paying for this service when I—” He cuts off, almost choking as two of Slade’s fingers abruptly shove into his mouth, forcing him to breathe only through his nose.

“I know you suffer from the same unfortunate affliction your predecessor does when it comes to keeping your mouth running, Jason, but I’m going to need you to show me that you can be a little bit smarter than that now.” Slade’s displeasure is evident in his voice. “This isn’t an offer I make casually, or to just anyone, understand?”

Jason growls around the fingers in his mouth, but nods all the same.

“Good. Now, I know you’re a clever boy, you’ve proven that to me already, so here’s the deal. You can say no, and we’ll leave it here. I’ll never bring this or the offer up again; we’ll carry on exactly the same way we did before.” Slade’s fingers push down firmly on his tongue as his thumb brushes over his cheek, “Or you can say yes. And I promise I’ll make it worth your while. The decision is yours. Yes, or no.”

The praise, backhanded or not, makes Jason’s toes curl in his boots, hitting some needy party of his brain he thought he’d successfully exorcised years ago. He hasn’t thought about sex for a long time - as much as he ever did. Maybe not since he was at Wayne Manor, in the good days before Bruce abandoned him. When they trained and roughhoused together on the sparring mats in the Cave, and Jason actually believed someone could love him.

It never went that far, of course. Those thoughts and feeling were only ever in his own head, and they died at the same time as his belief in Bruce did, only to be reborn into hate at the Joker’s hands. 

No. No, not at the Joker’s hands. At _Bruce’s_. Joker had only shown him the truth, it was Bruce who was responsible for things being the way they were. That’s why he has to die. That’s why Jason has to destroy everything he loves, making sure in that way that Batman will suffer as much as he has before the end.

He doesn’t owe _anything_ to Bruce anymore. Not his loyalty, not his love, and certainly not his desire. It’s his to do with as he wishes. After all, it’s not as if Bruce ever really cared about him, nor who he got his rocks off with.

And with that in mind...

He narrows his eyes when Slade withdraws his fingers from his mouth, coughing on reflex. “The mask comes off.”

“Of course,” the grip on his wrists relaxes, “you only had to ask.”

Jason groans as his arms are allowed to drop back down into a more natural position. It almost hurts more now than it did before, but Slade knows what he’s doing. Nothing is broken or torn, only strained. The resulting discomfort mostly a result of blood being allowed to run freely into places it was restrained from entering before: paresthesia, pins and needles.

Pins and needles.

He shudders for a different reason as he gets his hands under him, hearing a quiet click as Slade’s weight leaves his back, then the gentle tap of his mask being placed on the floor. Jason stares at the empty hole in the metal for a long time before he finally sits up and looks directly at the man it belongs to.

Slade is knelt down on one knee. His left arm resting across his thigh as he watches him in turn. Jason’s seen him unmasked plenty of times, and maybe even acknowledged on some level before that he was handsome, intriguing to look at; eyepatch and all. The silver of his hair and the lines in his face only hinting towards Slade’s real age, as his advancements keep back the ravaging effects of time as well as everything else. But it’s only now that he actually thinks about it, the way that knowledge relates to him: the strange want in his belly that was spurred by the pin and Slade’s tone of voice.

“You’re getting lost in your head again.” Slade says, with another disapproving click of his tongue. Then before Jason can think to argue, he’s wrapping his hand around the back of his head and dragging him forwards into a kiss.

It's a hard kiss, and dry. Not gentle, but not harsh either - or maybe that’s just Jason’s own fucked up perception. He stiffens even as he shudders, lost after years of isolation, during which his only regular source of human contact had been the impact of fists against vulnerable flesh.

“Relax, kid.” Slade says, picking up on this. “I’m not going to bite you.” He smirks, “Unless that’s what you want, of course.”

“We’re doing this here?”

Slade lifts the eyebrow above his eyepatch. “You got somewhere else you want to go?”

Jason thinks about the holes in walls he calls home. The thin, almost nothing pallets that count as beds, and try as he might he can’t imagine taking Slade back to any of them for this, even if each is as disposable as the last. Slade probably has something better, something more comfortable somewhere in the city, but if he intended on inviting Jason to one of those he would have done it already, rather than press for this to happen here in the empty tunnel.

“No.” He admits, “Here’s fine.”

“Good.” Slade’s fingers tighten in his hair, gripping hard enough that the odd twist of anticipation reappears back in Jason’s gut. He can see Slade watching him, analysing him as his lips part at the action, “Now let’s try this again.”

There’s something wrong with him, Jason thinks, as this time he kisses back, hands latching onto the front of Slade’s armour. Wires are crossed in his head, tripped by the wrong stimuli. Slade grunts as he drags him closer, his other arm curving around the small of Jason’s back, “That’s it. Good boy.” he says when the kiss breaks this time, and Jason gasps at the repeated praise, which is all the opportunity Slade needs to thrust his tongue between his lips.

He’s been kissed before, but never like this. Those kisses were relatively passionless things, where the other party was always more interested in what was going on beneath their belt and what Jason could do for them in that respect; he expects Slade to be the same way - yet that’s not at all the case. He _means_ the kiss, as more than just a formality. Taking and laying claim to the entirety of Jason’s mouth in a self-assured display of dominance.

The heat intensifies in his belly, spiking further down into his groin, and if there was ever a time where Jason could have labelled this feeling as anything but arousal, it’s over now.

He moans when Slade sucks on his tongue, gasps at the rasp of his teeth against his bottom lip and the feeling of his beard scraping his chin. The hand in his hair pulls his head backwards, forcing his back into a greater, almost unnatural arch as Slade leans over him; his bulk and power unmistakable. Jason hisses at the pain of it, hands tightening on the armour in his hands until the leather of his gloves creaks around his fingers. This… this he can’t… he can’t just....

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Slade says lowly, his eye boring into Jason’s when he pulls away. “Who knew you were capable of tasting so sweet.”

“Fuck you.” Jason spits out, panting now that he can. He’s never been called sweet before in his life. Sweet was for other people; people whose lives weren’t marked by blood and death the moment they were born. 

He shudders when Slade tuts at him, brushing the knuckles of the hand that’s not in his hair over his face, down the smooth side of his cheek and against his jaw. It’s gentle, almost a mockery of the punches Jason is used too, and made much more prevalent by the persistent ache from the grip at the back of his head. “None of that now, unless you want this to end so soon?”

“I’m not your pet, Slade.” He gasps as lips press against his neck, “You don’t have to pretend—”

“Pretend?”

Slade’s hand is lower now, finding the catches to the armour covering Jason’s chest. The latches and buckles open easily beneath his fingers. The heavier pieces are the hardest, but once they’re out of the way it’s no hardship for him to locate the zipper at Jason’s throat and pull it down. 

Despite still being covered by the thin shirt he wears underneath the reinforced jacket, Jason can’t help feeling exposed, especially when Slade’s hand presses against the flat muscle of his belly in conjunction with the heat of his breath at his throat. When he scrapes his teeth across the vulnerable line of his jugular, Jason almost moans aloud at the feeling once more.

“If either of us is pretending here,” Slade says calmly, continuing to use the hand in his hair as a leash to hold him in place. “We both know it’s not _me_.”

Jason opens his mouth to retort, to point out a certain blue-feathered bird Slade had been chasing for years before they ever met, but the sound is cut off immediately by the sharp twist of teeth in the flesh of his neck. He snarls instead, baring his teeth at the empty air and tearing uselessly at Slade’s armour as his heart skips a beat in his chest and then roars forwards at a pace previously unknown. What he feels is not fear, not anger, but some else entirely: something _darker_.

“Fucker!” He spits, when Slade pulls back, smirking at him. He’s so distracted that he doesn’t immediately notice that his belt was snapped open in the same moment. “You said you wouldn’t bite.”

“I said if you didn’t want me to.” Slade replies smoothly, “As I recall, you gave no indication of your preference either way. And judging by this,” his hand slides lower, from Jason’s stomach to the front of his trousers - where he is now well and truly hard, “I think I know why.”

Jason bites his lip again as his hips jerk forwards into the touch. Harder still when Slade continues to speak to him in the same low pitch that started this in the first place.

“You know, it’s interesting,” he presses the heel of his palm harder against his cock. “I never would have seen this in you before. It’s almost a shame we didn’t meet before the Bat and the Clown got ahold of you.”

“W-why? You saying you would’ve taken me…” Jason grits his teeth, “Ah, under your wing?”

“You have the talent.”

The answer surprises him, but he still shakes his head. Desperate to try and claw his way back to some kind of even footing, Jason starts to pull at Slade’s armour in turn. It’s heavier than his own, made for someone with a scrape of metahuman in them, rather than plain old homo sapiens, and the way comes together is completely unfamiliar to him. “I’ve not fallen low enough to start killing people for cash, Slade.”

Slade laughs, not at all offended by the slight. But then, to be someone like Deathstroke, you needed to have grown a thick skin over the years. “But you do kill them.”

“Those that deserve it.” 

“You could do that for money too.” Slade points out reasonably, “A mercenary gets to pick and choose their jobs. There’s a lot of deserving scum out there that people are willing to pay to see die.” His hand squeezes his cock tighter, making Jason’s hands falter in their fumbling attempts to undress him. His next words are the herald of an unwelcome question, “And what else are you going to do once the Bat’s dead?”

Jason freezes, his eyes noticeably widening in his face.

What is he going to do once the Bat’s dead?

He… he has no idea. None at all. He hasn’t thought past it. He can’t _let_ himself think past it. Only the act of it matters, the rest has to wait, because if he lets himself think past that goal he’ll fail. He’ll fail. And he can’t fail. If he fails...

“That,” Jason says finally, “is none of your fucking business.” He sucks in a sharp breath, before reaching up to grab the hand Slade has in his hair. With a twist of his head he breaks the grip, then lunges forwards to seize his mouth in a rather more violent kiss of his own, “I thought you were supposed to be helping me stay _out_ of my head, Slade? Don’t tell me you’re turning senile already.”

“I like to think of it as being entrepreneurial, but have it your way.”

Slade lets go of his cock at the same time as he reverses the grip Jason has on his hand. Abruptly, Jason found himself thrown to the floor. Just one arm is wrenched up behind his back this time, while the other is left to scrabble over the hard ground for purchase.

“You seemed to enjoy this position before,” Slade whispers by his ear, beard scraping against the lobe. “Let’s see if you enjoy it as much now.”

Jason gasps, pressing his forehead against the ground and biting his lip as Slade reaches back between his legs and undoes the fly of his camouflage-patterned trousers, working the zipper down before yanking the material off his hips, underwear and all. The cool air against his skin makes him shiver, but not half so much as the feeling of Slade’s right hand (now suddenly gloveless) sliding over his bare flesh does. His teeth clench together as his ass is squeezed, then the strong muscle of his thighs before those fingers slip lower, brushing teasingly against his perineum and stopping just shy of his balls. “Slade—”

“You keep this here until I tell you otherwise.” Slade orders, almost growls in a voice that’s deep and dark and almost _familiar_ as he squeezes Jason’s wrist where it’s pinned against his back. “Do you understand?”

“You—”

The pressure increases until he can feel the bones grinding together. “I asked if you understood.”

He wants to moan at the order; wants to lie down and beg even as he hates himself for how much it gets to him. The last thing he should do is enjoy being treated this way, but the unmistakable pulse of lust isn’t going away anytime soon. He _wants_ this. To be taken charge of; taken _care_ of. To get out of his head for a while, just as Slade said, and not think about anything more than the heat of another body against his own: one that doesn’t mean him any real harm.

Maybe that’s it, he tries to reason. Maybe it’s that he knows the pain inflicted by Slade in these moments isn’t really meant to torture him. He said he’d back off if Jason wanted him to - even if just for the sake of preserving his next paycheque - and the fact that they’re here doing this now is his choice.

It’s his choice, in the way that everything preceding this moment wasn’t.

“Yes.” He pants, mouth dry in the wake of his epiphany. “I understand.”

“Good boy.”

Jason shuts his eyes at those damning, pleasing words. Slade squeezes his wrist once more before releasing it, and then there’s an almost gentle touch to his hair before both of his hands are gone from him. Jason arm shakes in place without Slade’s hold keeping it there, but he doesn’t let it fall, squeezing his fist into a ball against the strain. 

He can’t see what’s happening behind him now, but the click of metal and whisper of rough fabric tells him that Slade’s getting undressed - or at least, that he’s getting the minimal amount of clothing necessary out of the way to do this; neither of their uniforms are made for quick and easy access after all. Then there’s a crinkle of… plastic? He thinks it’s plastic, and when Slade’s hand returns to his ass it’s wet and slick with _something_.

Lube? Slade just happened to be carrying lube around with him tonight? That can’t be right.

“A little easier to fit into your belt than a can of WD-40, wouldn’t you say?” Slade explains, as if picking up on the thought. Jason snorts at how ridiculous and yet practical the notion is; for greasing locks and hinges among other things. Handy when you had to sneak up on a target without being heard.

“I guess. Thanks for the tip.”

“Stick with me, kid, and you might learn a little more than that.” Slade says again, and Jason briefly wonders what it is that has Slade pushing the idea of him going with him after this is all over, before his other - still gloved - hand is sliding in over his thigh and between his legs to grasp his cock.

He moans at the direct contact; at the grip of that huge hand around him, touching him with rough languid strokes. His arm almost falls from his back before he remembers he’s supposed to be keeping it there and he refocuses his control; the ache between his shoulders an interesting counterpoint to the equally intense feeling between his thighs. 

He can do this. He can do anything that’s asked of him.

Slade hums in a pleased way, before his wet hand is on Jason’s ass; thumb pushing against the dry rim of his entrance. “Relax,” he commands, as Jason pushes his forehead down harder against the floor. Clutching at the dirt beneath the fingertips of his free hand. “Unless you want it to hurt, of course.”

“Just get on with it, old man.” Jason says, swallowing thickly as Slade squeezes his cock tighter in warning before sliding the tip of his index finger into him.

Men. Women. Jason has known both in his time, but it’s been a while - especially in this role. He has to remind himself how to breath through it, to focus on the ache of his shoulder from the hand at his back, and the raw rush of sensation from Slade’s attention to his cock rather than the discomfort of being stretched open. Slade at least has patience, which is more than can be said for many of his past encounters. He takes his time in opening him up, giving each combination of fingers their due before adding another to the group; all the while whispering his approval into Jason’s ear.

Praise for how well he’s responding to the stretch, for keeping himself in the position Slade told him to: for doing nothing more than taking what he’s given. And at that, Jason’s moaning even before those fingers find and press against his prostate.

Pathetic, maybe. But hasn’t he always been this way? Isn’t that what let him be fooled into falling for the illusion of family at Wayne Manor in the first place? To be seen and not dismissed; to be approved of instead of derided as another useless waste of oxygen on Gotham’s streets.

He shies away from those thoughts as if from an oncoming train, trying instead to focus on the fact that he feels hard enough now to burst apart at the seams. The ache of his shoulder and the rippling sensation of his cock straining and leaking precum over Slade’s gloved hand as he expertly touches him; slower now than before. As if he senses that Jason’s on the edge, but won’t be satisfied with letting him come until he’s already inside of him.

“Come on,” he pants, trying to make it sound more like a challenge than a plea, “Hurry the fuck up. What are you waiting for?”

“Impatient now, aren’t we?” Slade chuckles. He curls his fingers slightly, thrusting them again into Jason to hear him gasp. “I think there was something missing from that request though.”

“ _Slade._ ”

Slade clucks his tongue in his ear. “Pleasant, but not exactly what I’m looking for.”

His hands - both of them - abruptly stop moving, and Jason can’t bite back the whine from his throat. He tries to thrust his hips to get the sensation back, but all it earns him is the removal of Slade’s hand from his dick before it wrenches his other arm up to join the one already pressed in against his back. “You son of a—”

“Come on, boy. You’re smarter than that. You know what I what.”

Jason squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. The gritty floor is rough against the scarred skin of his cheek; Slade a large and warm presence at his back. So close and yet so far, and his voice… he shudders again. Despite the pain in his shoulders and back, his mind feels almost clear with want and desire. The world has narrowed down to Slade and the need Jason has for him to finish what he started.

He swallows and licks his lips before easing out the word between gritted teeth. “Please.”

“What was that?”

Slade’s fingers press harder into his ass, pushing against his prostate until Jason calls out, “Please!”

The word echoes down the tunnel, and Jason bites his lip as it fades, face flushing red. Behind him, he knows Slade must be smirking, yet his voice is firmly approving as he slides his fingers free of his ass. “Good boy,” there’s another squeeze to his wrists before they’re released, “You can put your arms down now.”

It isn’t right, but Jason’s past the point of protesting now. He moves his hands to his sides, hissing at the pain-pleasure in his shoulders before he manages to get them both underneath him - just in time too, as Slade pulls him up from the ground to sway on his hands and knees. Then his hands slide down to his hips, the one without a glove still wet but also blisteringly hot against his skin. 

Jason hasn’t been touched this much in so long. So long that he’s starved for it.

“Slade…” he tries, about to say he doesn’t know what, but then he’s quieted by the nudge of the head of his cock against his ass. 

“Hush. Just relax, boy. I know what you want.”

Jason bites his lip, swallowing down a thick wad of saliva as his head bows. He stares at his own hands against the ground, still covered in his gloves and gauntlets; focuses on his own breathing and the uncomfortable slide of sweat beneath his suit. Then the nudge becomes a push, and he gasps, arms almost collapsing under him as Slade enters him in small, gradually deepening thrusts.

It feels good. God it feels good, so much better than it has any right to.

He bites his lip, cutting it anew on the edge of his incisor. He feels… fuck. He doesn’t even know. He’s shaking a little at the thickness of the cock inside him, Slade’s hands on his hips and his hot breath against his ear when he hisses his own pleasure at the feeling. His head is spinning, in a different way than it was earlier; lost not in the past but the present. It’s been so long since he felt anything like this, so long since— 

Slade pulls back and then thrusts forwards into him again, sliding his bare hand up Jason’s chest, under the thin shirt wears beneath his armour and jacket. There are so many scars hidden there: burns from acid, cuts and ragged tears - the one on his cheek is just the tip of the iceberg, but Slade doesn’t flinch back from touching them. He runs his hand as easily over the scars as he does the smaller patches of smooth skin, and that fact alone almost has Jason coming.

He whimpers, then moans as his nipples are pinched and fondled, hands curling into fists against the uneven ground. Slade has control, that much is clear. He’s taking his time about this, thrusting slow and easy, taking his time enjoying Jason’s body while he pants and gasps beneath him, taken in all the ways he’s ever fantasised about.

(In all the ways except one.)

He shies away from the thought again, forcing himself to stop thinking; to just feel and enjoy this moment while it lasts.

Out of his head, he needs to be out of…

“That’s it.” Slade rumbles in his ear, he barely sounds out of breath, even as he starts thrusting into him harder. Jason moans. “This is what you want, isn’t it? Someone to hold you down, someone to fuck you like they _mean_ it.”

“Fuck!” Jason gasps. His hands slide across the floor in a way that would rip the skin from his palms if they weren’t protected by his gloves. “Slade. Fucking—” He bends his head down further when Slade’s glove-covered hand is suddenly back on his cock, the material rubbing him exquisitely. There are tears in the corners of his eyes as he bucks forwards into the touch, then back. The two points of stimulation more than he can handle when for so long everything has just been pain. Excruciating pain, and nothing more. “ _Please._ ”

“Come on, then.” Slade says, sounding pleased. He nuzzles the side of Jason’s jaw, raking his skin with his beard before giving the order. “Come for me, boy.”

He squeezes his cock and thrusts into him with even greater force. Hard enough that Jason’s hands really do give out from underneath him this time as he crashes down onto his elbows. He cries out when he comes, muffling the sound against his gauntlets. It’s like a tsunami wave crashing through him, washing away all the tension he’s been carrying inside his chest. He comes so hard that he swears he actually hears it hitting the ground and covering the leather of Slade’s glove.

And through it all, Slade doesn’t let up for an instant. He keeps stroking Jason’s cock with his hand, wringing out every last drop of pleasure possible while his body rocks into him, harder and faster than before, but still controlled: seeking his own end now that Jason has had his. He chokes and whimpers in the aftershocks of orgasm, spurred by the continuous hitting of his prostate with every thrust, while behind him Slade is quiet. Mere grunts of effort and the occasional growl the only sounds Jason can hear above his own.

He want to try and turn his head to look at him, but can’t quite bring himself to make the effort. Instead, he just keeps his face hidden against his arms, his eyes closed. And in those last few minutes his world is made of comforting darkness and those low sounds; the wet noises and heated feeling of Slade fucking into him until, finally, he too stiffens, pressed as deep and hard into Jason as he possibly can get. And then Jason can _feel_ him coming in him; the almost molten sensation of come inside his ass. He has to bite down on another cry of his own, shaking while Slade runs his bare hand down over his side and then on to rub soothing circles against his stomach.

Now that the deed is done, Jason expects him to pull away instantly - just like everyone else he’s ever been with before did, so he’s surprised when Slade lingers, waiting for him to catch his breath first and stop shaking. His fingers stroke over his skin, not tenderly, but firmly, commanding Jason’s attention until he can nod to show that he’s okay - which he eventually does, getting his hands back under him and swallowing at the feeling of Slade withdrawing from his body.

“Easy now.” Slade murmurs in his ear. His hooks his right arm under Jason’s chest before using it to pull him up into a sitting position, leant back against his torso with his head pressed in against the cool metal of his armoured shoulder.

Jason shivers at the change. At how solid Slade’s presence feels behind him, and the fingers that then slide up to run through his hair. There’s a rustle of cloth, which preempts the feeling of something damp being wiped between his legs.

Jason almost laughs, though he doesn’t dare look down to confirm it. “You carry around wipes too?”

“Helps with the blood.” Slade says calmly, not missing a beat. He cleans off his hands with one as well once he’s done with Jason, then balls up the used wipes and tosses them away down the tunnel before wrapping both arms back around his waist. “Feeling better now, kid?”

This sort of situation is meant to be awkward. It’s practically a rule of the universe, and certainly Jason feels that way as he continues to lean back against Slade, recognising the beginnings of what will surely be lingering soreness in his rear and back for the rest of the night. Slade however looks composed, at ease even as he rests his hand across Jason’s stomach again with a touch that comes across as mildly possessive. A small smirk curves his lips when he notices him looking, which is somewhat embarrassing as Jason self-consciously pictures how much of a wreck he must look in turn right now. Face flushed red and hair weighed down by sweat.

Yet...

“Fuck off.” Jason mutters, trying to pull away so that he doesn’t have to admit the truth. The truth that, yes, he does feel better; like a dam has burst inside him, temporarily releasing the terrible weight of his memories. That the way Slade continues to hold him is the best thing he’s felt in years; even better than the sex they just had.

Slade hums for a moment, but releases him without a fight, “That’s what I thought.”

Slade climbs to his feet while Jason wrestles with getting his pants done back up; smoothly reconnecting what small pieces of his armour came undone before retrieving his staff and mask from where they’d been discarded after their spar. By the time Jason’s done rezipping his fly, Slade’s face is covered once more, and he hates all the ways in which he finds himself wishing that wasn’t so.

“Leaving so soon?”

“Going to ask me to stay?” 

Jason grits his teeth, shaking his head. “No.”

“Don’t worry, kid. I’ll be around a while yet.” Slade says smugly, carrying on as if he’d said the opposite. The bo-staff slides smoothly back into its sheath as Jason finds his own feet, hunting for where he’d dropped his helmet at the beginning of all this. “I’m a professional, and I still owe you a report before I head back down to South America.”

“Yeah.” Jason says, as he picks his helmet up from the ground, staring for a moment at the mockery of Batman’s cowl in his hands before pulling it down over his head. “You do. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.” Slade agrees.

Jason walks towards the exit of the tunnel, a path that takes him right back past Slade. His stride is smooth and steady as he reassesses and compensates for the soreness in his body. He knows he can’t leave without speaking to his men outside first, so it’s imperative he makes sure they don’t suspect a thing. “And Slade?”

“Hm?”

He has to be in charge. In control even as he already misses the warm press of another body against his. There’s no room for error in his future. “This was a one time thing. It won’t happen again.”

He can’t see the expression on his face, but the lazy tilt of his head tells Jason that Slade is amused by the statement.

“Sure, kid.” he says, a bare step behind Jason as they walk out together into the wider warren of tunnels beyond this one, “Whatever you say.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Firefrightfic](http://firefrightfic.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, for updates, writing thoughts and occasional prompt fills not posted on Ao3.


End file.
